


Absurdities

by oxfordlunch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Career Change, Cooking, Drunk!Sherlock, Food, Food Trucks, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Romance, beginning of a relationship, embarrassing plays on canon quotes, fluff-ish, grilled cheese sandwiches, smut-free
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:18:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4388072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxfordlunch/pseuds/oxfordlunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want a sandwich, John.  And you, you are not making me a sandwich.  So I was fooding for cook.  Cooking for food.  Something.  I don't know.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absurdities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FleurDeLis221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleurDeLis221B/gifts).



> Just a short fic based on a prompt from Fleurdelis221B on Tumblr. She asked for John and Sherlock running rival food trucks. Hopefully I was able to deliver!
> 
> Note, this is not beta-ed or britpicked. I don't even know if grilled cheese is technically a thing in the UK. This was just meant to be a short exercise to get my creative juices flowing.

It is half-eleven on a Saturday night and John is exhausted and greasy all over with butter and cooking oil, wanting desperately to _go home_. He can't go home. There's a rather tall, stupendously drunk man swaying about in front of his food truck, and he is blocking most of the sidewalk in all of his staggering. The door, too. Escaping anytime soon seems improbable.

  
The man is familiar, far too much so. Sherlock Holmes. An absurdly posh name for an absurdly posh person. He is the proprietor and head chef of his own truck. He calls it “The Game,” which is a ridiculous name, asinine. “The Game” (John can't even _think_ that with a straight face) serves game meat, of course. John knows they do neat cuts of venison loin wrapped in crisp butterhead lettuce, and tiny, delicate quail served whole. There's probably some sort of juniper sauce involved somewhere; there always is with game. He has only eaten the food once, out of pure curiosity. It was overpriced, but excellent. He hated that it was excellent.

  
"John!"

  
Oh good, the drunken, handsome madman remembers his name somehow. John leans his elbows on the service counter and pokes his head out of the window. The night air is refreshing and a welcome break from the residual heat of the cook-top inside.

  
“What can I do for you, Sherlock?”

  
Sherlock stops short in his staggering and stares at John.

  
“John,” he says again.

  
“Christ, you really are drunk.”

  
“John!” Sherlock takes a few uneasy steps up to the service window. He manages not to fall down on the way and leans on the counter with a sigh.  “John. John, Watson.”

  
“You've got my attention, mate, go on. John Watson, that's me. Shall I call you a cab?”

  
John is familiar with the care and handling of drunk people. Such is the lot of someone who grows up with a family of alcoholics.

  
Sherlock squints at him. His forehead crinkles up with the expression. It might have been cute if John were less concerned about him falling down and splitting his skull on the pavement.

  
“John.” His tone is absurdly serious, considering the vague slur in his speech and his unfocused eyes. “John, your food truck is called “The Cheesy Chap.”

  
“OK,” John nods. He wonders how easily he can bundle the man into a cab and send him on home. “Yeah. It's not my food truck.”

  
“No, no, no. You work in it, and it is called 'The Cheesy Chap.' It's...” A pause, as though heis thinking over his next words. “It's absurd, John. Preposss. Preposterous. 'The Cheesy Chap.' What does that even mean? Are _you_ 'The Cheesy Chap?'”

  
John can't help giggling a bit at that. “I suppose you could say that. I'm the chap who makes the grilled cheeses. Does that make me a 'Cheesy Chap?'”

  
Sherlock looks aghast at him. “Absurd, John. And grilled cheese is horrid. Greasy, indelicate...” He trails off. He lifts his face and meets John's eyes.

  
Something flutters in John's chest. Sherlock's eyes are blue. Aggressively blue. Like nothing John has ever seen. He holds the stare for a moment, until it is broken by the harsh scent of whiskey on Sherlock's breath.

  
John closes his eyes, huffs out a breath.

  
“Sherlock, you really should let me call‒”

  
“John.”

  
John rolls his eyes before he can help himself. “Yes, Sherlock.”

  
“Can I have a grilled cheese?”

  
A bark of laughter escapes John. “I thought they were horrid.” He begins imitating Sherlock's slurring speech. “Horrid, prepossssterous, indelicate…”

  
Sherlock's brow does the crinkly-thing again. John is willing to admit to himself this time that this is indeed adorable, insofar as grumpy, drunken men can be cute. This softer version of Sherlock has become fascinating to him. It is a departure from the usual Sherlock Holmes; an exercise in alternate dimensions, parallel realities, evil twins.

  
“You're mocking me.”

  
“Nah, no, of course not. I would never mock a drunk man.”

  
“'The Cheesy Chap' is mocking me.”

  
“Uh huh. And calling me 'Cheesy Chap' isn't mocking me?”

  
Sherlock's voice dips to a growl. A slurring growl. “You _are_ 'The Cheesy Chap.' I'm just stating fact.”

  
“Yes, and you are really, really drunk. Sherlock.”

  
“I want a grilled cheese, John!”

  
“I've already cleared up for the night.”

  
Sherlock gives a long-suffering sigh and shakily rubs a hand over his face. “I'm hungry.”

  
“OK, and there are other restaurants who have not cleared up for the evening.” He tries to keep his tone even. It is difficult. Everyday Sherlock is unapproachable and aloof; this Drunken Sherlock is throwing him completely for a loop.

  
“Nowhere else does terrible grilled cheese, John!”

  
“Oh, OK! Yeah.” John smacks the flat of his palm on the counter. Sherlock jumps at the noise. “Keep insulting the food. Great way to get someone to cook for you. I'm calling you a cab.”

  
“The food, John! The food is terrible.” Sherlock has leaned back from the counter and is gesturing wildly with broad, pale hands. “It's, it's… horrendous. Abysmal. Grilled cheese? Grilled cheese is just glorified cheese toasties!”

  
John is taken aback by the sudden flurry of movement and words.

  
“And… And you make this bizarre potato dish. What's wrong with chips? Chips are perfectly serviceable, but no, you insist on horrible diced potatoes with burnt onions and then you have the gall, the utter _nerve_ , to call it 'hash.'” His voice cracks and his blue eyes have gone positively manic. “Hash! That is not a hash. I _know_ hash!” He gestures at himself with both hands.

  
“Sherlock!” John says sharply. “This is out of line, yeah? I'm calling you a cab. Calm down.” He reaches into his pocket for his phone.

  
Sherlock moves away from the counter and out of sight, and John stretches his head further out of the service window to see where he has gone. He feels his face drain of color as he sees Sherlock jiggling the door handle to the back of the truck. “Sherlock!”

  
John curses and walks to the door, opening it gently to avoid striking his would-be intruder with it. Sherlock steps back and sways on the spot, huffing with annoyance and staring at the sky.

  
“Sherlock, what the _hell_ are you doing?”

  
“I want a sandwich, John. And you, you are not making me a sandwich. So I was fooding for cook. Cooking for food. Something. I don't know.” He sounds suddenly quite distressed. There is a quiet whine in his voice.

  
John is unsure why, but his resolve shatters. “OK. OK. Come in here, then. And don't flounce your coat near the cook-top.” He turns and flips on the griddle. Sherlock follows him in, gracelessly managing the few stairs and ends up leaning in the corner, as out of the way as is possible in the tiny space.

  
John sets to work, neatly slicing off two slices of dense white bread. He can hear Sherlock humming, of all things, from over in his corner. It's a happy song, whatever it is. Apparently he is pleased about this turn of events.

  
The bread gets an even coat of expensive, Irish-made butter on each side, and John tucks a sprinkling of shredded Gruyère and thin slices of farmhouse cheddar in between. He sets the whole thing over the low heat on the griddle with a faint sizzle and lets it brown gently.

  
He leans back against a worktop while the sandwich cooks and looks at Sherlock. He wants to ask what this is about, but he thinks perhaps personal questions would be inappropriate. They barely know each other, after all. They are acquaintances at best, business rivals, maybe. But John finds himself monstrously curious, and the question pops out of him anyway.

  
“Sherlock, why are you drunk? And, why are you here?”

  
Sherlock opens his eyes and ceases humming. The crinkly brow is back. He seems confused.

  
“I--” he starts. “Your sandwiches are awful.”

  
John takes that moment to flip the currently cooking grilled cheese, lest it burn. “They're not awful,” he says. “They're not fancy, but they're not awful. And at least there's no juniper sauce.” He offers Sherlock a smile. It's not returned. The other man still looks terribly distressed.

  
“No, John, I--” He tugs at his curls with a fist, agitated. “John, they are awful. They're gaudy, and, and gauche and I should abhor them. But I don't. I don't abhor them and I keep watching this ridiculous truck every single day and it is driving me _mad_. Mad, John.” He growls and flails his hands again. “I am here, I am. I am drunk, and here, because I don't hate your sandwiches. I don't.” He stops moving, seems out of breath. “John.”

  
John feels his breath catch, faintly, slightly. He tilts his head, regards the man in the corner of his tiny kitchen. Their eyes meet once more; Sherlock's no longer seem quite so unfocused. They breathe for a moment, watching each other from across the room. There is a wary energy in the room. Questions drift unasked between them.

  
A vague burning smell breaks the moment and startles John back into awareness. He hastily pulls the slightly charred sandwich from the heat and takes a moment to neatly wrap it in wax paper. He takes a shaky breath. He wonders why he feels shaky. Why does this matter so much? Why does this feel so much like jumping off of something very high?

  
The step is easy to take, he finds. He turns back to the corner with the sandwich in hand, and walks towards Sherlock. He takes care to be gentle in his movements, as though it were a flighty horse he were approaching, not a tipsy and confused man. He offers up the sandwich.

  
Sherlock takes it from him, still regarding John carefully. John gives him a small smile. It feels good, genuine.

  
“I've made you an awful sandwich.”

  
“John, I--”

  
“You're drunk, Sherlock.” John nods at the wrapped food. “Eat. And I'll call you a cab.”

  
“I'm sorry, John.” He's staring at the floor.

  
“I'll call you a cab,” John repeats firmly. “And you'll leave me your phone number, and tomorrow I'll ring you, and we can have a proper conversation, yeah?”

  
Sherlock's head shoots back up and he looks him in the eyes again. There's a wonderful, tiny sparkle of something there. John feels his own eyes must look the same.

  
Sherlock unwraps the wax paper with care, takes a bite. When he's swallowed it, he smiles. “Terrible,” he says. “Absurd.”

  
“Absurd,” John echoes, softly. “Yeah.” He pulls out his phone to order the cab.

  
First, though, he adds a new contact to his address book.


End file.
